Whispers From Below

In a glittering moment, the leaves converse. Oh, seeker, speak to the willow - listen, and you shall hear the soft hum of roots dance beneath granite souls.

Each shadow stitches tales into bark, where forgotten breezes find solace in silt, float upon gossamer threads of time adrift.

Pine cones pulse with the laughter of distant stars; scatter them to renew the cycle, awaken clearings lost in mist.